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The weather map today is pale. The lines on the map are like the casts of fishing lines looping and curved briefly across air. The sky now, also, toward evening, is pale. On Sunday, in Beacon, there were lines drawn on walls and also lines drawn across the canvases of the last paintings of Agnes Martin. One of them has two pale squares on a blackened field. The lines on your walls follows directions as if as if there were a kind of logic charged with motion at the end of winter: the pale blue northern cold almost merged with the pale green at Hartford, and then the blank newsprint of the sea.